


Forever Fading

by Oaklin



Series: Forever Everything [41]
Category: Canadian Professional Wrestling International, Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Aggression, Blood, Kayfabe Compliant, Kevin missed being the pov character, M/M, Poor Sami, Possessive Behavior, Swearing, admitedly, and it is kind of gross and unnecessarily aggressive, descriptions of semi gross things, destruction of personal property, disparaging and unfair thoughts about people who just want to work out, god forbid Kevin yell at the person he is actually upset with, it's his turn to only get mentioned, no seriously, obligatory Kevin Steen warning, speaking of which, stealth angst, stealth romance, that person is himself, weird introspective musings about awful things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oaklin/pseuds/Oaklin
Summary: He wonders sometimes.If he will chase it until he falls.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> How is everyone this fine day? I had a surprisingly hectic week. I thought I was gonna miss posting this, but here we are. Today should be relaxing at the very least. I am all done with all of my grown-upping for the week, and everyone seems to have settled down. Hurrah!
> 
> Now that my bitching is out of the way, onto the story! Man, Kevin missed you guys. Well, no he didn't, I don't think he misses anyone. Of course, that can't be true, because he very clearly, very emphatically is missing someone in this very fic. And because he is somewhat abysmal at dealing with his emotions toward said certain someone, he does ill-advised things.
> 
> Basically, be warned of bby!Steen being bby!Steen. He is in full form here, snapping at anyone and everyone, having really unpleasant and dark thoughts, and solving all of his problems with violence.
> 
> Enjoy ^.^

The plastic snaps its way to destruction in his hand, the device creaking in protest as he squeezes. He watches the particles crumble to the ground like they are made of calcified toothpaste-

- _blood_ -

“Fuck,” Kevin blurts out loud, the abrupt sound echoing through the room.

Kevin exhales roughly, rubbing his fingers together, scraping off the dust left over. It clings stubbornly to his skin-

(which is just so _typical_ )

- _it's not **his**_ -

( **everything** is-)

No.

-coloring his fingers with flecks of silver, gold and black.

Which, now that he is looking at the results, and contemplating the situation, is probably a **bad** thing.

Kevin wonders what chemicals a phone battery has in it. He wonders belatedly if he should go wash his hands.

He is pretty sure the battery din’t actually break. Just the casing.

(it is probably fine)

- _probably_ -

(listen)

- _yes?_ -

(...shut up)

Kevin grimaces slightly as he shifts his fingers, feeling at least three places where a distinct, sharp pain tells him that he has little shards of screen embedded in his skin.

- _deserved_ -

(fuck you)

(didn’t do _shit_ )

- ** _exactly_** -

(the fuck?)

- ** _take_** -

Kevin inhales so sharply an so quickly that he flinches, his nose burning at the hot air filtering through his sinuses. Resisting the urge to sneeze, Kevin hauls himself forward and up, lifting himself up off the bench with some effort, his muscles supremely unimpressed with him at the moment.

Turning, he starts to stalk off over to the corner he had thrown his bag into when they got here, but he stops short, feeling a somewhat alien, yet at the same time somewhat familiar tug in his chest. He bickers internally for a heartbeat, before letting out a low, annoyed hiss, snapping his body around and slamming the weights back into the correct places, yanking them off the... whatever Franky had called the stupid, bullshit, phallic crossbeam that all these exercise douches seemed to like jerking off so much.

- _barbell?_ -

(yeah)

( _ **whatever**_ )

- _just saying. it's called a_ -

“Fuck off,” Kevin snarls under his breath, slamming the last weight onto the pile next to the bench, eyeing them menacingly for a moment, ignoring the way he feels settled now that they are put back where he found them, before turning around and stalking over the the tiny corner of the loud, way-too-hot room where his bag landed.

Pacing across the room in a way that he is well aware makes him look like a serial killer on the prowl, he stops in front of his duffel. He hears a voice call out from behind him, but he ignores it as he reaches down, hauling the bag up. Slinging it over his shoulder, his spins on his heel, griping the strap tightly as it digs into his shoulder.

He can still feel the shards embedded in his skin, can almost feel them moving, as if they are still trying to cry out for-

“Get the fuck out of my way Franky, I have places to be.”

Franky’s smile doesn’t falter at Kevin’s harsh rebuke, and Kevin kind of wants to stick his fingers in Franky’s mouth and pulls his jawbone apart until he **_just_** -

(stop fucking being so goddamn **_happy_** -)

fuck

- ** _it's all of_** -

“Get out of my way. Now,” Kevin reiterates, though this time it comes out as less of a demand.

The words themselves are commanding enough, but even Kevin can recognize-

- _oh really?_ -

- _ **can** you?_ -

-that his tone is more on the softer side of an order.

- _that is called pleading_ -

(no shit)

- _ **begging** if you will_ -

(suck my nut)

- _masturbation jokes? is this really the time?_ -

“My good comrade, is something wrong?”

Kevin closes his eyes, the feeling in his chest making him want to throw up. He swallows against the dryness in his throat before answering, though his voice still wavers like he is still going through puberty.

“I’m just fucking great. Never been better. Now, I’m only going to ask you once more, nicely, before I punch you in the throat. Get out of the way.” Kevin bites out, the word filtering through his tightly clenched teeth, barely making it past his lips.

Franky doesn’t move, and for a minute Kevin thinks he is actually going to have to go through with his threat. His already aching chest clenches even more at the thought, though he isn’t sure exactly why.

(not like I haven’t _hit_ Franky before)

- _idiot_ -

But Franky does move, after a few painful heartbeats of staring searchingly at Kevin, the jovial smile falling from his face slowly as Kevin stares him down. They remain frozen there, still as statues, Franky with his head tilted quizzically, Kevin breathing hard and feeling cornered and hunted, the sharper pieces of his shattered phone bleeding into his skin, like the unreturned phone calls are burned into his soul.

(wait, **what** )

- _need_ -

(No)

(hang on)

(you can’t just gloss over that shit)

(what the _fuck_ )

( _nothing_ is **burned** into my **_soul_** )

- ** _want_** -

(shut the fuck up, you don’t motherfucking know _anything_ -)

“You don’t like it after all. Understandable,” Franky smiles again, though this time there is something more solemn there, in the gray of his eyes. Something less blindingly, gratingly chipper.

Something less happy-go-lucky, and a little more rough around the edges.

There is even a little anger there, though to be honest Kevin has no idea why, although he is sure that the anger is directed at him.

- _isn't it always?_ -

“I am sorry. I wanted to take you somewhere you could work out your frustrations,” Franky says, moving out of the doorway.

Kevin doesn’t hesitate, just stalks through the now clear doorway, ignoring the one or two perplexed looks they get from the other meatheads as they vacate the room of overcompensation.

Franky falls into step beside him, so Kevin feels somewhat obligated to carry on the conversation.

His next course of action then, naturally, is to shift the bag slung across his shoulders into a more comfortable position and keep his lips pressed tightly together.

- _obviously_ -

(shut it)

- _you are doing a spectacular job of that for everyone in a hundred mile radius, thank you very much_ -

- _you **completely impossible diva**_ -

“After all, I should have known that working out wasn’t the way _you_ would choose to work through your domestic frustrations,” Frank adds conversationally as they stroll down the clinically white hallway, heading for the parking garage.

Kevin clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Is that a fat joke? Really?”

Franky barks out a laugh, though it’s not his usual one. Not the one he gives when Pierre is around, or when he is with the new kids, giving them pointers on how not to get gutted by a shady promoter. This laugh has a bite to it, and the smile that he gives Kevin is all incisors and glinting slate eyes.

Kevin finds that he likes this one better than Franky’s usual blustering goofiness.

(feels more real)

- ** _dangerous_** -

( **exactly** )

“Yes, Steen, I was making a fat joke. Obviously. I wasn’t **at all** insinuating that I think you handle your problems poorly. I most definitely wasn’t suggesting that you have very personal, intimate issues with a certain someone, and that the best way to solve intimate issues, is with some up-close-and-personal intimacy.”

(...whatever the fuck _that_ means)

- ** _oh my fucking god_** -

“Sure. Whatever. I handle my problems my way, you handle yours your own way,” Kevin says, with perhaps a bit more aggression than he intends. Franky raises his hands, laughing as he surrenders, but a though occurs to Kevin, and he is blurting it out before he can stop himself.

“Wait. What does any of that have to do with working out?” Kevin asks, genuinely confused.

Kevin turns a glare on Franky, when the other wrestler’s response is a long winded, long suffering sigh. Franky weathers the dirty look, replying with a somewhat dry smile.

“What does working through excess aggression have to do with working out? Is that what you are asking me?” Franky says, tilting his head to the side, staring strait ahead, a little lip quirk the only clue that Kevin is being ad fun of.

Still, Kevin is mildly befuddled.

(why does he always have to speak in riddles?)

“Yeah. I don’t get what the fuck you are going on about. I don’t have any kind of _aggression problem_ ,” Kevin studiously ignores the loud, derisive snort that that statement earns him, “I don’t have any particular aggression directed at any **_one person_** either, so I don’t even get where you are coming up with any of this horseshit-”

- _really?_ -

- _the broken pieces of your **caller id** would like a word with you_ -

( **different** )

- _it is **not**_ -

- ** _at all_** -

“I mean, unless you count-”

Kevin cuts himself off, biting his lips and shooting a glare down at the smudges of blood now dotting his hand.

(fuck)

- _simple solution_ -

“I don’t fucking see how working out is going to help with... **_that_**. I mean, your idea was dumb anyway, because any **aggression** I have gets dealt with on the regular when I kick the asses of _you_ and your _**bitch friends**_ so-”

(ah)

- _idiot_ -

Kevin inhales roughly against the surge of adrenaline and - ** _want_** \- that courses through him at the though. Licking his lips, he takes far too many long strides down the hall, his vision almost tunneling on the exit in his haste. Belatedly, he waves a hand over his shoulder at Franky before streaking off, his earlier surliness and complaining muscles forgotten.

“Maybe your idea aren’t so bad. See you, Franky. I need to go talk to G.”

* * *

“So you decided to fight the scrawny kid after all eh?”

Kevin rolls his shoulders, inhaling roughly through all the snide retorts that threaten to choke the air from his lungs.

“Yes. I literally just told you this. Is your champions choice of opponents a problem?” Kevin bites out, taping his boot against the solid concrete floor.

Gino makes a harsh sound in the back of his throat, that Kevin realizes after a moment, is him laughing.

“Not at all. I’d say it’s about damn time, in fact.”

Kevin cinches down his bootstraps a little harder than necessary, but says nothing, silently flexing his toes against the tingling sensation as he briefly cuts off his own circulation.

G joins him in the silence for a few breaths, and Kevin doesn’t look up, just mops at the perspiration across the back of his neck with the towel sitting on top of his duffel and ignores the room at large.

(stop fucking staring at me)

“Well, I suppose it is good that you finally settled on someone.” Kevin snorts, detecting a hint of skepticism in Gino’s voice that makes his hackles rise.

Kevin clamps his hand around the very end of the towel, pulling it from it’s perch around his shoulders. The fabric flops down harshly across his lap, making a muted thumping sound. He taps a finger against the slightly damp cloth, breathing in time with the bustle of the locker room around him.

- ** _fuck_** -

“I’ll fight anyone and everyone.” Kevin growls, turning slightly, tossing the towel back down on the bench and taking up his tape.

“Good. Then you won’t mind fighting Beef later tonight then.”

Kevin freezes, his eyes automatically going to his bag. He can’t see it’s shiny plastic, but he knows the cursed thing is in there, with it’s several dozen unreturned calls to that one number.

Kevin takes a breath, deliberately relaxing his suddenly tense muscles. He glances up at Gino, not trusting himself to say anything. Instead, he just shrugs, hoping for nonchalance, although the way his fingers curl around the tape in his hands until the roll bends tells him that maybe he is showing a bit more of his mind than he wants to.

- _want_ -

(not the time)

- _ **always** the time_ -

(stop)

- ** _need_** -

(that’s fucking great)

(Beef gets to die later)

(calm the fuck down)

- _not what we **want**_ -

Kevin inhales, closing his eyes and lowering his head, grasping the tape between his fingers and rolling it around, taping his foot against the floor and focusing on the rhythm.

“The little asshole has been bugging me all day for a match.” G goes on, like Kevin isn’t having a crisis of conscience right before his eyes.

(not a crisis)

- _just **get up** and_ -

(it is fine)

Kevin rolls his shoulders, shaking his head to clear away the unnecessary thoughts. He leans back on the bench, planting one hand on his knee and tossing the tape once with his other hand. Looking up, he shoots G an smirk.

“Sure thing boss. You want a bunch of dead wrestlers on your property, that is your own prerogative. You want me to kill both the little fuckers together or one at a time?” Kevin quips, tossing the tape up in the air once more. He watches it careen towards the ground snatching it out of the air at the last second. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he relents and pulls the very end of the tape up, slapping it against his skin and beginning to wind the material swiftly up his wrist.

Not that it matters.

Kevin gets his fingers around what he really wants one way or another.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, bby!Steen. Why you so fucked in the head? I mean, I get it. It's not like you can help it, and we all love you anyway, but geez. Calm the fuck down.
> 
> One of these days, we will move past this one particular weekend in august 2004. We will, I swear. I guess I just have to get this out of my system first. The next one should be the last, as it is shaping up to be the actual fight. Which means Kevin is getting two in a row from his point of view. Fair I guess, since Sami has been glory hogging for a few fics now.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and didn't get too creeped out <3 Have a good week!


End file.
